


Hysteria

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-29
Updated: 2007-08-30
Packaged: 2019-01-19 22:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12419979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Anachronistic glimpses into the life and times of our favorite pink-haired Auror.





	1. metamorphmagus

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

 

**1. Metamorphmagus**  

 

Drip, drip, drip.

She stands before the full-length mirror (the Muggle, _silent_ kind) and lets out a long, heavy, drawn out sigh.

Pink hair, dripping. Dark brown eyes, eyelashes dripping.  Wet skin, glistening, dripping.

Closes her eyes. Rubs her temples. Sighs again.

In an infinitesimal moment, her nerves suddenly feel as if they’re melting.

Her spine tingles as her hair lengthens, gracefully falling into a drape on her back.

Her face is warming up. Her hands and feet feel swelled. She stretches her fingers and toes. And opens her eyes.

Soundless laughter.

In any case, she’s still a Black.

Her nose has curved a bit at the tip. Her lips slightly thinner. Her cheekbones more prominent. Her neck somewhat thinner. Her body less toned. Shoulders rounder. Her toes slightly wider. Her fingers longer.

The lightest, sparsest freckles are sprinkled across her cheeks.

She thinks of her father.

Her hair is black, straight, dripping and shining. Reaches down to her lower back. She extends her arm around her back and fingers the broken ends of her hair, pulling them down and feeling the pressure contact her scalp. Merlin, she hasn’t had a proper haircut in ages.

Her eyes have lightened. She opens them wider. Her eyelashes are longer, still dripping, and her gray eyes stand out against new, paler skin. She looks closer. Sees blue specks sparkling in her irises. 

She thinks of her mother.

Closes her eyes. Nerves melting. Spine tingling.

Opens her eyes.

She wraps a towel around her body, scratching her head as she leaves the bathroom, bright pink hair dripping water onto her shoulders. 

 

 


	2. little red riding hood

**2\. Little Red Riding Hood**  

 

“You’re not serious.”

He stares at her as she waltzes into the bedroom, mouth hanging open and eyes wide.

“Of course I am.”

She twirls her body in an exceptionally uncharacteristic fashion. The hood of her cloak falls to her back. She shakes her head back. Her hair drops around her shoulders, longer and wavier than usual, colored red, decisively the same shade of the Hogwarts Express. 

She’s wearing a red cloak that matches her locks, and not much else underneath. She had felt so bloody awkward, tentatively walking into that boutique, mumbling and blushing. She inwardly cringes at the thought of her words – ‘Er, I need, er… to purchase something… um, sexy, but at the same time… you know, good-girlish, and, uh… princess-y…’

_Merlin_.

After making her purchase, she had run out of there feeling prudish and embarrassed and utterly appreciative that she hadn’t tripped on the way out.

He quirks an eyebrow.

“Of course I am,” she repeats, more firmly this time. She’s standing there, at the foot of the bed, in a tiny piece of fabric she’s certain barely even _qualifies_ as underwear and a frilly, lacy bra that she’s positive she’s just _spilling_ out of. And her cloak is rather itchy against her bare skin, and the heels she’s wearing are cramping her toes.

And he’s not saying anything, and suddenly she feels stupid.

There’s a war raving around them, _with_ them, _at_ them—and _this is what she does for fun?_

She looks down, bites her lip, and hates the fact that she’s feeling stupid, and hatehate _hates_ the fact that it’s her fault for letting him make her feel this way.

Suddenly her body jerks forward, and somehow she is on the bed, and he is lying on top of her, and the lights have gone out, and she feels his mouth on her jaw line, her neck, her collarbone and everywhere else, and he’s half-whispering, half-chuckling something factual about wolves that really, at this point, has nothing to do with anything, and his hands are all over her body, and he’s mumbling swear words because he can’t get the bloody cloak undone, and she feels like she’s on _fire_.

And somehow, as she presses her mouth to his, she feels considerably less stupid. 

 

 


	3. let's not bring up the past

 

**3. Let's Not Bring Up the Past**  

Sometimes she thinks she looks a bit similar to Sirius, and too much like Bellatrix.

Black hair, piercing eyes, high cheekbones, slender fingers.

Then she’ll trip, or knock something over, or accidentally light something on fire… and she knows that she is definitely a Tonks.

She has never shown him what she really looks like. He would say he doesn’t care, but she knows better.

So instead of Sirius’ cousin, instead of Sirius’ murderer’s niece, she is content to simply be Tonks. 

And, as she stumbles clumsily over her own feet and he reaches forward to catch her before she falls to the ground, she thinks it must be enough. 

 

 


	4. stand next to your fire

**4.  Stand Next To Your Fire**

They were all over the school.

The first-year twins; Filch already seemed to know their names, faces, and footprints, which made them notorious enough. And another one—a third-year, she thought, perhaps a second. Always had his nose down in a book or up in the air. Even last year, she’d had something of an embarrassing run-in with the Head Boy, and was rather thankful that he’d graduated. And there was Charlie, with whom she had Care of Magical Creatures (definitely his favorite class) and Defense Against the Dark Arts (decidedly hers), and to whom she had, in truth, only paid much notice during Quidditch matches.

All boys. All Gryffindors. All red hair, freckles, and something distinctive that she couldn’t quite place.

For some reason, the fact that Charlie Weasley always caught the Snitch—but never won the game—seemed quite unfathomably important to her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\--

a/n: Let me address this before I go any further into this plotline, because I definitely will. There’s one excruciatingly frustrating pitfall (for me, at least) with the timeline in this situation.

This particular period of time, the Charlie/Tonks at Hogwarts era, that is, has real shoddy canon. According to canon, Charlie Weasley was a celebrated seeker/captain who graduated the year before Harry began school. Sometime during Harry’s early reign as Gryffindor seeker, it was mentioned that Gryffindor hadn’t won the cup since Charlie left. _However_ , it was also mentioned in Harry’s first year that Slytherin had taken the cup for a consecutive seven years previous. Bottom line, it doesn’t make sense that “they hadn’t won since Charlie left”—meaning they won the year before Harry started school— _and_ that Slytherin had apparently taken the championship seven years in a row before Harry started school—which would mean that in all of Charlie’s time at school, Gryffindor never won. 

For the purpose of this story, I’m going with the Slytherin theory. Maybe none of this matters to you, but I had to explain because as far as I know, the pre-Ron, canon Weasley years are the most fucked up mistakes in the entirety.

That and I’m a bit psychotic. 

_PS, every time you review, another name gets burned off the Black family tree. =)_

                                                                                                                                                                                  

                                                                                                                                                               


	5. i wish i could bring myself to care

 

 

**5.  i wish i could bring myself to care**

_\------_  

For the first time in twenty years, Narcissa Black Malfoy sat down, smoothed out the wrinkles of her robes, and willingly joined her older sister for a proper meal. Moreover, for the first time in her existence, she had broken bread with her only niece, half-blood, blue hair, dirty fingernails and all.

\--

“Yes, I’m afraid Lucius _is_ rather busy these days, involved in—”

_Tap, tap, tap._

A chorus of succinct, sharp raps at the window brought Narcissa’s conversation to a halt. There on the windowsill perched a soft-eyed, petite owl, pecking repeatedly at the glass with its beak.

“Strange,” Andromeda murmured, “During dinner.” 

Nevertheless, she rose from her chair and opened the window. She detached a letter from the owl’s leg and it flew away almost immediately after. The letter was visibly addressed to an embellished “Ms. Tonks,” a stamp beneath it bearing the official legend of the Ministry of Magic.

She opened it, surveyed it with a blank expression, and then slipped it into a drawer behind her, locking the drawer proficiently with a charm.

“What was it?” her daughter inquired after she reseated. 

“Yes, sister, what was it?” Narcissa pressed on. “This is our meal too; we have any right to know.”

Andromeda paused.

“My daughter has been,” she began, glancing at Nymphadora briefly then turning her attention on Narcissa. “Has been accepted into the Ministry’s Auror training program.” She met her sister’s gaze with an almost daring expression, her blue eyes boring into an identical set with a sort of firm assurance.

After a moment, Narcissa nodded thoughtfully, and continued with the previous moment’s discussion. 

\--

She left them later that evening, emphatic in her conduct of civility and calmness. Of course, it was no surprise that she would never return to the Tonks household again. Nor was it, however, as the mother and daughter would come to find, a terribly profound loss either. 

 

 

\----

a/n: not particularly sure how i feel about this one. anyway, i'm not sure if it was ever stated whether lucius malfoy actually had a real job. besides, you know, the whole death eater thing. wonder if he gets benefits with that. XD


	6. clumsy

_\-----_

**6\. Clumsy**

_\-----_

Nobody stopped to help her pick up her books anymore.

It was nearly a bimonthly thing, this horrid clumsiness, falling over something invisible, school supplies scattering the corridors. First and second year, and perhaps a few times in third, they’d stop regularly and help her reclaim her belongings. Now, though, well into her sixth year, everyone sort of formed the notion that that klutzy girl with eccentric hair was hopeless, and there was no use risking tardiness for her.

She wholly understood.                                                          

When she fell to the ground one day in late November, however, she was only partly to blame. It was a fleeting moment, but something had surely collided with her body. All she saw when she looked up were a pair of blurry orange heads turning the corner.

At this point, there was no use in getting angry. So, she gave the obligatory sigh and started picking up her parchment and quills. When she turned to search for her Transfiguration textbook… there he was.

Textbook, red hair, freckles, and all.

“Oh. Thank you.”

She held out her hand for the book.

He took a step closer, slipped her textbook into her sack, and smiled.

“You’d better keep this one in your bag; McGonagall would kill you for losing it,” he said. “Just in case the Gruesome Twosome comes around again.”

And as fast as he’d shown up, he parted, and she was left feeling mildly discontented that she didn’t have class with the Gryffindors today.

\--

_Thump._

She had been walking the length around the house from the front door to the backyard when she was knocked off her feet in a rush, landing squarely on her bum. She groaned when she caught a glimpse of a set of hurried, lanky, bleeding _identical_ redheaded figures turn the corner. 

She rose to her feet and turned on her heels to find the wand she’d dropped in the fall and was entirely stunned when she came face to face with Charlie Weasley, the perfect groomsman decked out in impeccable black dress robes, casually twirling her wand about with his hands.

“I—er—thanks.”

And _that_ was a _wonderfully_ articulate thing to say, really, to a person she hadn’t bloody seen in what seemed a thousand bloody years.

She extended a hand to accept the wand, even though she knew there was no point (and she hated herself for knowing), and she could’ve drowned in self-pity when he stepped forward and dropped her wand into her pocket. 

Just because it was him, and she pictured this a dozen different ways, better ways, ways in which she’s not clumsy and he’s not perfect.

Wand, red hair, freckles and _all_.

“You’re probably going to want this close next time you see ‘em,” he remarked. He smiled at her. “Life is funny, isn’t it? See you later, Dor.”

_Hilarious._

And he sauntered off past her.

When Remus arrived, she kissed him hello for just an instant longer than she might’ve the day before. 


	7. first impressions

_\-----_

**7\. First Impressions**  

_\-----_

She is four years old.

This is by far the most magnificent place she has ever seen. Wizards and witches crowd the streets, pausing now and then to converse with old friends, waving at one another jovially; even when they push past each other hastily with bags of merchandise, she thinks it is marvelous. A bookstore is up the street; families enter empty-handed and exit with an armful. The ice-cream store is a few meters away, she peers inside; it is teeming with teenagers and children, expectantly on this sweltering summer afternoon.

She thinks she might like to die in Diagon Alley.

“Come, sweetheart,” calls her mother, pulling her out of her reverie. She latches onto her little hand and leads her straight into one Magical Menagerie. She bends down at her eye-level, and grins. “Nothing bigger than your head, all right Nymph?”

Nymph squeals in delight, releases her mother’s hand instantly, and runs off in the direction of a fairly ominous looking bat-like, winged creature. After careful observation of one baby half-Kneazle/half-Siamese, one curiously attentive rabbit, and a blue toad, she decides on the kitten. Feeling confident in her decision, she starts to find her way back to her mother to tell her. When she is about to emerge between two shelves of Owl care products, she stops in her tracks at the sound of her mother’s voice – and that of someone else. She takes a step back, eyes them surreptitiously, and, naturally, eavesdrops.

“—and you were noticeably absent at the wedding last year, my dearest sister-in-law,” says the man. Blond hair, tall, pale. His stance is graceful, his expression still. If it weren’t for the fact that his tone of voice was rather unnerving, Nymph would think he is quite elegant, much like her own mum.

“Noticeably absent?” her mother repeats, scoffing. “Noticed by _whom_ , Lucius? Certainly not the family who disowned me six years ago.”

He allows a slight laugh at this, though the noise seems anything but pleasant.

“Too true, my dear Andromeda,” he agrees.

“Please save your endearments for my sister,” she replies icily, and crosses her arms. “How is she, anyway? Good wife to you? I’m sure she doesn’t notice when you slip out of the house for a midnight rendezvous with some slag or another—or, rather, she dutifully _ignores_ the fact.”

He smiles, and Nymph is at once reminded of the devil.

“I’m faithful,” he states matter-of-factly. “I am a devoted husband to Narcissa—and—” He pauses, his derisive smile growing slightly wider. “I imagine I could have served you fine as well. Surely you remember the _original_ arrangement, Andromeda?”

“How could I forget?” she comments dryly, donning a falsely sweet smile.

“Of course, if I could have my _preference_ of the Black sisters—” He traces a fingertip in the crease between her two crossed forearms. “If only you hadn’t gone off and married that dirty Mudblood _waste_ …”

“Don’t touch me,” her mother spits acidly, and coils away from him. “Don’t you _ever_ touch me.”

Quite suddenly, Nymph feels a pair of arms engulf her and spin her around. She grins at the sight.

“What have I told you about eavesdropping?” her father asks, hoisting her up on his hip. She supports herself by wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Who is that man? I don’t fancy him much… don’t think Mum does, either.”

“Let’s investigate, shall we?” And he strides over to the pair with Nymph on his hip. His wife’s features are crossed with revulsion and the man’s face is somewhat malcontented.

“And I beg you, Lucius, leave my presence, all right? Forever.”

“Yes, she begs you,” Nymph’s father cuts in before the man has a chance to respond. He approaches his wife and affectionately—almost possessively—places his hand on her shoulder and moves it down her arm. He leans forward, but Nymph can still hear him when he hisses, “Before the dirty Mudblood takes out his wand and does something he’ll regret in front of his kid, yeah, Malfoy?”

Her father wears an undaunted expression.

The blond man sneers but says nothing, glancing at Nymph briefly before pushing past them. As he exits, she hears him mutter the phrases, “filth,” “worthless child,” and “what they deserve.”

“Hello,” her mother smiles, and brushes her lips against her husband’s temple. “My hero and my princess. Have we chosen a pet, then?”

“I want a cat,” grins Nymph, and decides she won’t bother pressing the issue with the rude stranger— _though_ , she dimly infers, from the conversation, that he just may have been her uncle.

Years later, when she is standing face to face with him, wands out in the Department of Mysteries, she vaguely recalls an old, dust-covered conversation. At this recollection, she wastes no time—and sends him a ready and long overdue, _Stupefy_. 

 

 


	8. living is easy with eyes closed

_\-----_

**8\. Living Is Easy With Eyes Closed**

_\-----_

 

He always has his hands on her neck, on her throat, on her clavicle. 

He says it’s because he likes to feel her heartbeat, and she is so utterly endeared by this that she cannot respond. He says he likes to know she is alive. She tells him that having a pulse doesn’t mean she is really _living_ , and thinks fleetingly of Sirius. He catches her expression, somehow reads her mind, and says Sirius will never be the same again, that Azkaban has ruined him for life, for _living_. She says Harry might help, and he shakes his head. He says Harry’s eyes are too much green, too little hazel to help.

She doesn’t understand, and he says he doesn’t expect her to.

He likes to listen when she breathes. He waits for conscious breathing to progress into the regular rhythm of slumber. He says he always makes sure she is asleep before he dozes off. She says that that’s a bizarre sort of protection that she appreciates, but doesn’t need. He tells her he doesn’t do it because he wants to protect her, he does it because he can’t help it.

She doesn’t understand, and he says he doesn’t expect her to. 

 

_\-----_

_chapter title from the Beatles_

_feedback is greatly appreciated <3_


	9. not dead, but definitely dying

**9\. Not dead, but definitely dying**

 

_\----------_

 

“Charlie?”�

 

“Hm?”�

 

“Charlie?”�

 

“Yes?”�

 

“ _Charles_?”�

 

He puts down his book and gives her a pointed look. “ _Nymphadora_?”�

 

“Cheap shot,”� she says, wrinkling her nose at him. She takes the book from his hands. “I don’t know why you bother. You could take up that offer…”�

 

“I could.”�

 

“Think of all the possibilities…”�

 

“I have.”�

 

She sighs. “Why are you being so… _indifferent_? It’s not everyday that the Appleby Arrows wants a Seeker straight out of Hogwarts! Not even reserves! They want you to _start_ –”�

 

“Romania,”� he blurts, cutting her off effectively.

 

“What?”�

 

He takes his face in his hands, groaning. She knows something big is about to happen, because Charlie never says anything without thinking. She can read him like she can read no one else, even herself, because whereas she is ever-changing, Charlie is ever-constant. Her hardwiring has rearranged itself to serve them both, and the electricity is alive and fierce and unwavering.

 

_For now_ , says a niggling, worried voice.

 

“I’m going to Romania,”� he says, looking at his hands. She waits for him to elaborate. He doesn’t, so she makes her own assumptions.

 

“Er… that’s wicked!”� She smiles uncertainly, and he is still inspecting his hands, maybe counting the freckles on them. “But what does that have to do with…anything?”�

 

“I got the internship,”� he replies, finally looking at her. “Remember? Back in January, when we were all signing up for post-graduation programs? When you submitted your Auror Training application? And I applied for the internship in Romania. With the dragons.”�

 

“ _Oh_ , right, I forgot.”� A pause, and realization dawns. “Wait, we didn’t even get our responses back yet! We haven’t even taken our NEWTs…how can you be accepted already?”�

 

“It starts immediately–I mean, they’ll need the NEWT scores, of course, but a recommendation letter from Dumbledore pretty much sealed the deal. I’ll be taking a Portkey two days after graduation,”� he says. His eyes soften at her expression of bewilderment, and he reaches up, gently cupping her face in one hand. “I’m… moving there. So… no Quidditch, I guess.”�

 

“Quidditch,”� she echoes softly, then she smacks his hands away from her, standing abruptly. “No _Quidditch_? Are you _serious_ , Weasley?”�

 

“Dora–”�

 

“For how long?”�

 

He finds interest in his hands again. “Indefinitely, as of now.”�

 

She laughs, humorlessly, and he looks at her again. “So it was going to be ‘Wotcher, Tonks’ on the last day of school and then disappear on me forever, yeah? Were you even going to _tell_ me?”�

 

“I just did!”�

 

“Because I basically cornered you into a wall! How long have you known–and don’t you dare lie to me.”�

 

He sighs, and she knows he won’t. Sometimes she thinks the Black temper comes in handy, but it can’t possibly be just _anger_ that’s stirring in her veins right now, certainly waiting to bubble over when she’s in another room, away from him.

 

“Beginning of June.”�

 

She smiles tightly, and nothing more needs to be said. “That’s great, Charlie. Really great.”�

 

She walks away from the table, and behind her she hears him say quietly, “I love you.”�

 

It’s hopelessness in his tone, and honesty, too, that much she can trust. He doesn’t say it often, he’s not the type and neither is she, but she knows he does. It’s not conceit, just fact. It’s the scrappy notes she finds in her Charms textbook that say _Dora is cool!_ in his hurried scribble, it’s the Weird Sisters concert he takes her to even though he hates the music, and it’s the apology in his voice for doing something he shouldn’t be sorry for. Ultimately, it’s what makes her leave the library without a single look back, maybe feeling more hopeless than he does.

 

\--

__

_Er, you may have noticed that I deleted the last chapter. I wrote it in post-DH euphoria, but then I realized, “Hm, okay, Sarah, you started writing this, eight drabbles in, BEFORE DH, you stupid twit.”� So pre-DH it shall remain, because that would just mess everything up otherwise. Apologies for any confusion, and if you have no idea what I’m talking about, then ignore this little message. Sorry for slow updates, but I do like this story, so keep your eyes peeled. Jack Johnson at the top. Review please!_


	10. once a marauder, always a marauder

_\-----_

**10\. Once a Marauder, Always a Marauder**

_\-----_

She wasn’t sure how it came to this, but she decided not to question it.

They were sitting at the kitchen table. Two glasses of wine before them. She took hers to her mouth, let it sink down her throat, and bit back a grimace. She hated red wine, it was too bitter for her taste, but she didn’t want to seem like a child who didn’t appreciate the finer liquors and refuse Remus’ offer to pour her a glass.

“And then, of course, there was only one group of students to blame,” he continued his story, laughing slightly. “Actually, Peter and I had nothing to do with it—it was all Sirius and James—but McGonagall gave us detention by default, anyway. Just the baggage that came with being a Marauder, I suppose.”

His face held a wistful but comfortable expression. She smiled. “Do you miss being a wild and crazy Marauder, then?” she joked.

He leaned forward, and raised an eyebrow in a manner she considered to be _very_ Marauder-esque indeed. “Who said I ever stopped?” he rasped lowly, grinning.

She was certain her heart had either a) started beating so fast it was impossible to distinguish between contractions and expansions, or b) it simply stopped beating altogether. She liked Remus best like this, unguarded and lighthearted. Still, she rolled her eyes and forced herself not to take this little movement as more than it actually was.

“Ah, I see,” she smirked. “Nice little trick you’ve got there, Lupin. Bet all the girls at Hogwarts went wild at that one.”

“Pardon me?” He was still grinning.

“Oh, come on! That was a _move_.” She rolled her eyes again. “Leaning close, lowering your voice. Merlin, you Marauders think you’re all so _slick_.”

“First of all,” he began, straightening (she tried not to lament the loss of their closer proximity), “You’ve only truly known _two_ Marauders. Secondly, one of them is your _cousin_ , so I hope to Merlin that he hasn’t—ahem—made a _move_ on you for your so-called observation of… Marauder slickness.”

“Is that all?”

He looked thoughtful for a moment that could’ve lasted three seconds or three years. He glanced at his glass of wine. Empty now. Then hers. A quarter full. He took it, drained it, and banished the glasses to the sink.

“Thirdly,” he said, standing up. “And finally. If I was making a move, Tonks, you wouldn’t notice.”

“I wouldn’t?” She stood up as well, and they left the kitchen together. “I _am_ an Auror. Inherently observant, you know, trained to notice things that escape the average eye, _constantly vigilant_ —and all that.”

“Of course,” he agreed. The stairs creaked below their steps. He smiled as he leaned against the frame of his bedroom door. “Except—let us revisit our original topic of conversation.”

“Which was?”

He stepped back into the bedroom. “Well, that I was— _am_ a Marauder, after all.” He reached forward and squeezed her hand. “Goodnight, Tonks.” He closed the door.

She raised her eyebrows, even though he couldn’t see her. “Was _that_ a move?” she called, loud enough so he could hear her clearly. She could hear him laughing on the other side. 

“What do you think?”

 


End file.
